Just Run
by Tales of Midnight
Summary: Draco, faced suddenly with a task that would involve following in his father's footsteps, turns and leaves behind all he's ever known. It's dangerous, but, then, wouldn't it be dangerous being a Death Eater, too? And Draco finds himself inexplicably drawn to Harry Potter, the wizarding world's beacon of hope. But they couldn't be more different . . . or so Draco thought.
1. Prologue: No Escape

Draco couldn't handle it anymore.

His father and his manic ravings of the Dark Lord, of the promised glory that came with serving him. The task that Bellatrix was certain would only help him. His mother, too, though grudging, thought it might be best for him to do it. It would get his father back, and they both wanted that . . . didn't they?

At first, it had seemed wonderful. Kill Dumbledore and earn back his father from Azkaban. It was stupid, Draco thought bitterly, how even in prison his father could affect his life. But, then, everything was about Lucius, wasn't it? It always had been . . .

"You would have to take the Mark, of course," Draco's aunt had told him briskly, "but it's what your father would've wanted, isn't it?" Her eyes had gleamed madly. That look was absolutely terrifying.

"Now, now, Bella." Draco's mother had pulled him back from her sister gently. "Draco has much to think about. Don't you, Draco?"

Draco had swallowed and given a slight nod before scurrying away, but even hidden away in his magnificent room in the Manor, he could still hear Bellatrix's yell of, "Cissy, think of the opportunities! Draco could do so well!"

Had it been then, Draco wondered now, that he'd decided to get out? He wasn't sure. Maybe he'd made the decision long before and the thought of having the Dark Mark branded onto his forearm had merely amplified the thought.

But it didn't matter. He'd gotten out (taking practically nothing with him, as he was still underage and could do no magic to ease the weight without being caught . . . and that was simply too big of a risk) and he'd left. Where he was going, he'd had no destination in mind. Somehow, though, he'd wound up . . . at a muggle park? He'd been walking for days, armed only with his wand and, embarrassingly enough, a kitchen knife. He'd thought to bring it as a second thought, because, again, he was underage and underage magic would have him found. He would've taken a dagger from his father's collection, but he'd never been allowed to see his father's things without his father there. Old habits die hard, he thought to himself as he sat down and leaned against a tree trunk, and somehow searching through his father's things didn't sit well with Draco.

Draco had gotten himself into this mess, he knew, but he could see no escape. He'd been gone for four days, he'd counted. The food he'd brought was beginning to grow exceedingly scarce, and somehow Draco doubted he would be able to swallow his pride and go find muggles to mooch off of. Besides, he was sixteen years old. What person in their right mind would take in a random sixteen-year-old boy? And even if there were wizards nearby (which Draco somehow doubted), they would immediately recognize him as a Malfoy, and he wouldn't have a chance to explain anything before they slammed the door on him.

He didn't know where he was. It was dark, and half the streetlights were burnt out. But, really, Draco hardly even understood what streetlights _were. _He'd heard that muggles ran by some kind of fake light source, which was powered by . . . electricity, he thought it was called. This was merely because of the fact that he'd known people in muggle studies in Hogwarts that had been absolutely flabbergasted by the fact that muggles were so resourceful, even without magic.

It was weird, Draco found himself thinking exhaustedly, how he'd always been taught that muggles were vile creatures that would never match up to a wizard in any way, and yet he found himself constantly learning new things about them. He had never before pondered over muggles much, but the more he found himself thinking about it, the more he found himself hating the fact that he'd never bothered to look beyond his father's prejudices. He'd strayed from the arrogant boy who'd worshipped his father. Why else would he have run away from the Dark Lord's requests?

And then it set in.

_He'd run away from the Dark Lord's request._

_Oh, shit, _he thought feebly.

He was probably going to die. Someone would find him. It wasn't as if he was completely untraceable, what with being underage and completely stupid and stubborn—and _why _had he ran?

Draco felt suddenly dizzy. He'd never been anything but a model Death Eater-to-be. Now, suddenly, he'd turned around and ran away without a second thought. What had he expected, some kind of nice vacation of an escape? It had been four days, which meant that he was probably being followed. Maybe somebody had even started following his trail.

His stomach lurched. No. He would be fine . . . wouldn't he?

Actually, he probably wouldn't be. If the Dark Lord thought he was worth the time, then Draco would probably be dead already. Maybe his mother had talked the Dark Lord out of going after and killing him? He doubted it. It was probably more a matter of how Draco rather lacked a lot of . . . skills. Survival skills. The Dark Lord likely did want to kill him, but why bother if he would be dead soon, anyway?

But that wasn't how Lord Voldemort worked. Draco knew this. He'd _witnessed _it. Torturing, killing mercilessly . . . if he wanted somebody to pay for something, they would pay for it. Through screams or death.

So . . . why was Draco still alive?

It didn't matter, he told himself. He'd brought this upon himself, hadn't he? He was probably already being stripped of his inheritance as it was, so what was there to look forward to?

His eyelids closed lightly, and he figured if anybody found him, it would be all right. Certainly other people had escaped from home, hadn't they?

Yes, there was Sirius Black, who was Draco's cousin, removed from the family tree for being a blood traitor. He would be next, he supposed. He'd ran to escape the consequences of things and yet he'd been faced with other problems. Bigger problems. Irony seemed to like to have a big laugh at Draco every one and a while, didn't it?

Stifling a yawn, Draco wrapped himself up tighter in his cloak. A few minutes of rest wouldn't hurt . . . and he hadn't slept in a few days . . .

But a few minutes turned out to be an endless abyss of darkness as sleep sucked him in.

It was too bad Draco couldn't sleep with his eyes open. Too bad he lacked survival skills and didn't understand that to sleep meant to alert himself to the enemy. Or the . . . old enemy? The new allies? No, that wasn't right. At this point, they were all enemies. It was the world pressed harshly on Draco's shoulders.

And how can one escape the world when it expands all around him?

There would be no escape for Draco. No escape from the harshness of reality.

_No escape._


	2. Chapter One: In the Dark

**Author's note: **all right, for starters, I'm going to say that I take claim for nothing you recognize and this belongs to J.K. Rowling and associates. I'm writing this for fun, not profit, and don't wish to claim ownership over anything that isn't mine. I'd written this on the last chapter, but it didn't bother to show up, so I figured I'd just write it here.

Now, secondly, I know that they moved the HQ for the Order, _but _it never mentioned _where _it was moved. Plus, this move was merely a temporary one and they did move back to Grimmauld Place (as far as I'm aware, but it never was mentioned in HBP so . . .). However, it goes against what I want to write here and, thus, it's much easier to write it as such. (Also, there was no mention as to how long it took to check if only pure-bloods could get in or not, so maybe it fits with the canon in that way . . . maybe.)

And I know I'm going on rather a bit, but I just want to say thank you to anybody who actually bothered to read the prologue! I was rather ecstatic to find that I had people who had favourited/followed this story! I'm quite a rubbish fan fiction writer and rather find original fiction to be a better fit for me (though I'm not overly skilled at that, either). Either way, I'm immensely thankful and, though this may sound a tiny bit ungrateful, I would quite appreciate reviews as well. I don't care if you're hating on me (well, I would, but . . .), because it would be a pleasure to know anybody had taken the time out of their day to review my work.

And, without further, ado, I bestow upon you . . . the first _actual _chapter!

**Chapter One: **

Draco blinked groggily, his muscles tight and exhausted. His bed didn't feel as comfortable as it normally was, either . . .

He shot up, his eyes wide as he realized that this certainly was not the Manor. Instead, Draco was surrounding by eerily dark walls and silence. After a moment of taking in the decor (which was not much, save for a bookcase crammed into the corner), he noticed fleetingly that he _knew _this place. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a memory was trying to surface. It, however, was drowned by the thoughts of anxiety suddenly shooting through Draco.

What had happened? He'd ran away, not slept properly in four days and then had pretty much passed out at some Muggle park. Someone must've found him, if he was in a room, lying in a bed . . . and he could vaguely recall being in this place, wherever it was. Did that mean that his mother or aunt had found him? He supposed Aunt Bella was a just short of mental and she _did _want him to do that task, and that his mother truly loved his father and did genuinely want him back, but he also couldn't see them turning him over to the Dark Lord. Then again, family bias wasn't exactly a foreign thing to Draco.

But as the door creaked open and Albus Dumbledore stepped inside, Draco's almost-relief vanished instantly. He was in trouble. It wasn't exactly uncommon knowledge that Draco's father was a Death Eater, and surely the Headmaster figured that Lucius's son had followed in his footsteps.

"Ah, you're awake," Dumbledore said, his lips curling up slightly as he came to sit upon a chair that Draco hadn't even really noticed, despite his sweep of the room, was beside the bed he was in.

Draco swallowed, suddenly feeling a bit squirmy, but said nothing.

"I'm not sure if you remember," Dumbledore continued, "but you were found by a few members of the Order of the Phoenix last night. You woke briefly, while we explained what was going on and told the address of this place to you—as you would not have been able to get in otherwise—and brought you here. Although, it was a rather short amount of time and you were quite exhausted, so I cannot say for certain whether or not you remember it."

It was there, Draco realized, coming up through all the weird emotions stirring Draco's stomach. Yes, that was right . . . it had been dark, but there had been three men there. One of them had most certainly been Dumbledore, and the other two had barely spoken and were people that Draco didn't recognize.

Dumbledore was staring at him curiously, and Draco averted his own gaze away from the Headmaster's blue eyes.

"Why?" Draco asked, his voice a bit raspy from recent lack of use.

"We figured it would only be a matter of time," Dumbledore said, rather gently. "Professor Snape mentioned that he was not sure you would want to be a Death Eater, and your escape seems to have proven this theory."

Through all the heaviness settling in his chest, Draco felt a surge of anger. Snape—Severus Snape, the Dark Lord's most trusted Death Eater—had been speaking to Dumbledore, the lover of Muggles, about Draco's possible reservation when it came to the Dark Arts? How tremendously . . . humiliating? Draco wasn't sure _what _to think at this point.

"I can understand your anger, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore told him, clearly taking note of the way Draco's eyebrows had bunched together and his nose had scrunched slightly, "but there can be no stragglers, as you must understand. Voldemort tends to not take lightly those who go against him, and we're here to offer you protection."

Draco, in his blind state of anger, did not even flinch at the Dark Lord's name. "Maybe I don't _need _protection," he snapped.

"While you may not, it might be better if you did."

Draco's jaw twitched, because he knew Dumbledore was quite right. Even if, he wasn't going to admit it anytime soon.

Just as he'd opened his mouth to respond, Dumbledore had stood in a majestic swish of robes. "I understand you likely have some questions, Mr. Malfoy. However, we will have to wait until you've rested and eaten properly. There will be time later."

If anything, Draco's anger only grew at this statement. "No," he said flatly. "I would prefer if you would answer my questions _now_."

Dumbledore seemed to hesitate for a moment before he turned and said, "Very well, Mr. Malfoy. Ask your questions and I shall answer to my best knowledge."

This answer was a tiny bit surprising, but Draco didn't let show as he pressed on: "Why hadn't I been found before you came across me?"

"Your mother and aunt kept rather quiet about the fact that you had run away," Dumbledore explained, not moving from his spot at the door. "We heard around the same time as the Death Eaters did, and it was relatively easy to locate you, as you're still underage. We only managed to just avoid Voldemort's forces, I am sure, but we did beat them to you."

"My mother and aunt? Are they all right?"

"As far as we are aware, yes." Dumbledore smiled thinly.

"And where am I, exactly?"

"This," Dumbledore said, gesturing to the room around him, "is one of many guest rooms in Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, where the Order of the Phoenix currently meets. This would be your cousin Sirius's old house." Dumbledore looked grave for a moment before saying, "But, as he has passed away, the ownership of the house has shifted."

"Who owns it now?" Draco asked, frowning. Sirius hadn't had any children, this he knew, from his mother's gossip of her rather messed up family. The Blacks were a confused family, filled with disowned children, blood traitors, and its fair share of haughty, snide members, too. Draco figured he fit into the last category.

"I say this only as it is a matter of your family and you deserve to know. However, I ask you not to discuss this with him, as the matter of Sirius's death certainly was quite hard on him."

"Yes, yes, I can do that," Draco said dismissively.

"I shall take your word for that, Mr. Malfoy. This house, along with most of Sirius's possessions, was willed to Harry Potter."

_Of bloody course, _Draco thought bitterly. _I had to wind up in somebody's house and it's _Potter's.

But he said nothing more on the matter, instead asking, "I've heard things, of course, but what exactly is the Order of the Phoenix?"

"We'll discuss this later," Dumbledore said curtly. "For now, I must take my leave. You may do well to sleep for a bit or have something to eat. Four days without much of either is quite strenuous, I am sure."

And he left. Just like that.

Draco took in a ragged breath. _Ridiculous. _This was bloody ridiculous. He'd ran away to escape the fact that there was an impending war, only to wind up on the opposite side of it. Biting his cheek, he thought back to how he'd told himself there was no escape. From anything, really. He would never be able to get away from his father or this damned war; from fear and humiliation. And, worse, he couldn't get away from _Potter_.

Potter's house. Of all the places to wind up in!

But, then, he supposed it only made sense if he'd landed himself on the side of the war that was against the Death Eaters. Harry Potter was their biggest hope. Too bad they couldn't see his class performance, the way he was outshone by a Mudblood. But Draco, too, was rather outshone by Granger. His father had been furious at him for that . . .

That was in the past, though, he told himself forcefully. His father couldn't touch him again. He was in Azkaban. Draco was safe—for now, at least.

And with this sense of security wrapping around him, he found himself beginning to tire again. He _was _exhausted. He wondered vaguely if he'd slept long before waking up, or if it had only been a few hours. Either way, it didn't matter. He had three days' worth of sleep to catch up.

Slowly, Draco fell back into sleep. He would have to face things when he woke up, but for now, sleep seemed like a good enough escape. And was Draco good at getting away from things.

* * *

><p>"<em>Malfoy<em>?" Harry said incredulously.

Mrs. Weasley nodded, looking a bit flustered. "Arthur's just told me. Apparently he ran away from home."

Ron snorted doubtfully. "What reason would he have to run away?"

Hermione shot Ron a look. "I don't know, but somehow I think that it's probably important. Do you think he'll be back at Hogwarts, then?"

"I don't see why not," Harry said. "Hogwarts is probably the safest place to be."

"As if he needs _safety._" Ron scoffed.

"He probably does, actually," Hermione snapped. "If he's run away, then surely Voldemort will be angry with him! He was probably being groomed for the moment when he turned seventeen, so that he could join their forces! And now he can't!"

"I think Hermione's right," Mrs. Weasley said thoughtfully. "What other reason would there be, if he wasn't trying to get away from You-Know-Who?"

"Maybe it was a set-up," Harry considered. "You know, send him out and make him a spy or something. Obviously, they didn't bother to find out if he was trustworthy or not."

"I don't think so, Harry," Hermione said. "Why would they send Malfoy?"

"Maybe because nobody thinks they would?"

"Doubt it, mate," Ron said with a shrug.

Harry stared, amazed by the fact that Ron had just, in a way, _defended _Draco Malfoy. He didn't seem to realize it, but he had, and it had been pretty natural, as if he didn't believe that Malfoy was as sketchy as he was. But, then, maybe he'd just wanted to agree with Hermione. It would take a fool not to notice the way Ron looked at her sometimes. And while Harry had his reservations about his two best friends getting together, he figured it probably didn't matter at this point. Besides, Harry thought that they would make a lovely couple. While they often fought, it was usually over something small, and maybe it was just a way to let out their affection for each other without being affectionate.

"Doubt what?" Ginny asked as she sat at the table with Harry, Ron, and Hermione (Mrs. Weasley preparing breakfast in the kitchen).

"Well, Malfoy's at Grimmauld Place right now," Hermione began. "Apparently, they found him yesterday night and took him back. He supposedly ran from home."

Ginny looked at Hermione, her face completely impassive, then she burst into giggles. After she'd finished laughing, the three older teenagers blankly staring at her, she said, "No way. You can't be serious."

"Oh, believe it," Harry said with a grimace. "He's probably there now, celebrating that Voldemort's plan to have him spying on the Order had worked out!"

"_Harry,_" Hermione said sharply. "I already told you, he's probably not spying on anything! School starts again very soon, and he wouldn't be able to spy on anybody from Hogwarts that he wouldn't be able to normally. Besides, Snape's already the Order's double-agent, isn't he?"

"Then what other suggestion do you have?" Harry shot back. "Somehow, I doubt he honestly _ran away_."

"No?" Hermione asked quietly. "You don't think Voldemort could've gotten to him? He's still as old as we are, Harry. His father's been put in prison, and he pretty much followed his father so closely that it seemed a bit like he was his father's shadow. You don't think that, without his father there to guide him, he might've gotten afraid and just . . . ran?"

"He's not exactly the best person, is he, Hermione?" Harry said indignantly. "How could you defend him after all the terrible things he's said to you?"

"I'm not saying he's a _good _person, but I do think you might not be taking into account that he probably has feelings, too."

Harry scowled, but said no more. He would probably never best Hermione in an argument. She was simply too good.

"Besides," Hermione continued, "even if he _was _working as a spy, I doubt they'd let him into meetings or give him any more information than necessary. He'll also be at Hogwarts very soon, and I suspect he won't get _any _information there. He couldn't even get anybody inside Grimmauld Place—he's not the Secret Keeper."

Harry sighed. "I guess."

"Come on, Harry," Ginny said lightly, "I'm sure Malfoy won't do anything _too _fishy."

"Yeah, mate. And if he does, I'm sure he'll be out before he can say anything else."

"I dunno," Harry said uncertainly. "Dumbledore gives people too many second chances."

"Maybe he's right about Malfoy, Harry." Hermione shrugged. "People change."

"Not Malfoy!" Harry protested.

"Oh, come _off _it. Dumbledore isn't stupid! You know that Malfoy's just as likely to have changed as you are. You aren't exactly the same kid who came to Hogwarts when he was eleven after living out ten years in a closet, are you?"

Harry's jaw tightened. "Hermione, I would appreciate it if you _didn't _talk about that."

"Right," she murmured. "Sorry."

"And," Harry continued, "I don't think that Malfoy can't change. But I also don't think that every change is for the better."

"I think," Ginny spoke up before Hermione could get another word in, "that you two are too stubborn for your own good. Let's not argue, okay? It's too early for this."

"It's not that early, actually," Harry said.

But, still, it was odd for Hermione and Ron to _both _not side with Harry against Malfoy. Why was that? They'd always hated Malfoy as much as Harry did . . . hadn't they? He'd thought that they had, but had he been wrong? No, because Hermione had slapped him in their third year, and Ron had always treated him with a rather large amount of disgust. Malfoy had been only a racist git to the three of them, calling Hermione profane things and treating Ron with a terrible disrespect for not being obsessed with the purity of blood. So, there had to be _some _reason for them defending him. What weren't they telling Harry?

Harry would find out. He was determined to.


End file.
